hybridartifacts (hybridartifacts) wrote,
hybridartifacts
hybridartifacts

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Book of Days

This is the seventh of a series of seven pictures entitled 'The Book Of Days' for the Inspired Art Fair www.inspiredartfair.com

SundaySmall

 

Sunday I found a strange sight ahead of me as the mist finally cleared-an old automata-a fortune telling booth. It appeared to have risen recently from the sea and was drapped with all manner of sea life and odd nautical toys. I kicked it a few times to see if it still worked, and a little drawer popped open with what could only be the last fragment of the diary in it.

"...the oracle knew the answers, but it only emerged from the sea once in a persons lifetime...
When the oracle spoke, awoken by the spells I had cast on that eerie beach, it told me nothing I did not already know, but everything I had always hoped and feared."


Sunday

If I had found the diarist, it was only because I had realised that I had been looking in the wrong place all this time. My own fingers are ink stained, the places I visited strangely familiar. The diary entry held more than the others, and as I read on the sense of familiarity deepened...

"...Once the ORACLE was done, it shuddered and shivered and clattered; quaking in its barnacles and waving sea weed fronds.
From a concealed drawer it spat out my fortune:

“I am EARTH & STONE
WATER & SILENCE
Blue SKIES & GREY

Paper FLESH
& INK blood
Chattering and STILL

Touches & Gestures
SYMBOLS washed up
on the shore

I see the WORLD
stretched out before me
a plain of FUTURES past

Travel with me a MOMENT
while my DAYS still last
PAGES in my BOOK of DAYS”


Open the BOOK of DAYS-inside are wonders. Your life is written in musty books read long ago when you were still a child-formed in alphabets and picture books. It is in songs you heard, half forgotten and replayed in your head like an angry bee or a soothing lullaby. It is in conversations, nocturnal interactions and chains of letters forged in your waking times. It is in the places you walked, amidst ruins and monuments, pleasure piers and palaces and the memories of home.
If your life spoke of what made you, it would tell a fable of fragments and images, moments, sighs and dreams. A diary of impressions, moods and marks left torn and scattered along the path of your life. A mystery with no answer but the answers others see and we assume like a mask of stone or a mantle of warm skin..."

There are seven days-and seven ages of man. Bitter-sweet and glorious to taste this simple span.
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